Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

The Attempt And Not The Deed Confounds Us.

How Many Cowards Whose Hearts Are All As False As Stairs Of Sand, Wear Yet Upon Their Chins The Beards Of Hercules And Frowning Mars, Who Inward Searched, Have Livers White As Milk!

The Setting Sun, And The Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last, Writ In Rememberance More Than Long Things Past.

All That Glisters Is Not Gold; Often Have You Heard That Told.

The Expedition Of My Violent Love Outrun The Pauser, Reason.